True Stories 9782330093037

Citation preview

SO POTE GAILGy

ACTES SUD

2S

ERUEPSTEO RIES 56 short stories

BY THE SAME AUTHOR PUBLISHED BY ACTES SUD: TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, 2007 BLIND, 2011 VOIR LA MER, 2013 GHOSTS, 2013 DETACHMENT, 2013 TRUE STORIES, 2013, 2016 MY ALL, 2015

I would like to thank: Greg Shephard, my accomplice.

Jean-Baptiste Mondino, the discreet and generous author of some of the photographs. Anthony Allen, Richard Baltauss, John Berens, Bob Calle, Brice Fauché et la galerie Sollertis, Peggy Leboeuf, Joachim Magrean, André Morin, Juan Solanas, Maurice Tinchant, Gérard Traquandi, Robert Violette, Catherine Wagner,

Hanford Woods for their images or their help. The last sentence in the text on p. 75, “The Other”, is a quotation from Rainer Maria Rilke.

© Actes Sud, 2017 for this edition

ISBN 978-2-330-09303-7

SOPHIE

CALLE

True Stories

ACTES SUD

Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2023 with funding from Kahle/Austin Foundation

https://archive.org/details/sophiecalletruesO000call

sed with a man for seven years. He left.

oe me as gift, offering isodes of my life.

Through new editions, this dedication, which is no longer the reality, stayed in place.

I dedicate this book, nine years later, to Bob Calle, definitively the providential man of my life.

The Dutch Portrait

I was nine years old. While rummaging through my mother’s letters I found one, addressed to her, which started like this: “Darling, I trust you are seriously thinking about a boarding school for our Sophie.” The letter was signed by a friend of my mother. I assumed from this that he was my real father. Whenever he came to visit us, I would sit on his knee and, with my eyes deep in his, I would wait

for a confession. But his total lack of response caused me at times to have doubts. Then I would re-read the stolen letter. I had hidden it behind the picture in the dining room, a fifteenth century Flemish painting entitled Luce de Montfort, which portrayed a young woman in a pink bodice, her face slightly turned to show her left profile while her eyes looked straight at you, her features framed by a white, starched linen coif.

The Red Shoes

Amelie and I were eleven years old. We had a habit of stealing from department stores on

Thursday afternoons. We did this for one year. When her mother began to suspect, in order

to frighten us, she said that a policeman had

spotted us and reported our activities to her. But because of our age, he was giving us a second chance. He would now follow us, and if

we stop stealing, he would forget about the past. In the following weeks, we spent most of our time wondering who the policeman

hidden among all the people around us was. In our attempts to lose him, we were now too

busy to steal. Our last robbery had been a pair of red shoes too big for us to wear. Amelie kept the right shoe, and I kept the left.

The Plastic Surgery When I was fourteen my grandparents suggested that I needed plastic surgery. They made an appointment with a famous cosmetic surgeon, and it was decided that my nose should be straightened, that a scar on my left leg

should be covered up with a piece of skin taken from my ass and that my ears should be pulled back. I had doubts, but they reassured me, I could change my mind up until the very last moment. In the end, though, it was Doctor FE. himself who put an end to my dilemma. Two days before the operation, he committed suicide.

Young Girl’s Dream When I was fifteen I was afraid of men. One day, in a restaurant, I chose a dessert because

of its name: “Young Girl’s the waiter what it was, and a surprise.” A few minutes with a dish featuring two

Dream.” I asked he answered: “It’s later he returned scoops of vanilla

ice cream and a peeled banana. He said one word: “Enjoy.” Then he laughed. I closed my eyes the same way I closed them years later when I saw my first naked man.

Pet

The Bathrobe I was eighteen years old. I rang the bell. He opened the door. He was wearing the same

bathrobe as my father. A long white terry cloth robe. He became my first love. For an entire year, he obeyed my request, and never

let me see him naked from the front. Only from the back. And so, in the morning light, he would get up carefully, turning himself away, and gently hiding inside the white bathrobe. When it was all over he left the bathrobe behind with me.

The Striptease

I was six. I lived on a street named RosaBonheur with my grandparents. A daily ritual obliged me every evening to undress completely in the elevator on my way up to the sixth floor where I arrived without a stitch on. Then I would dash down the corridor at lightning speed, and as soon as | reached the

apartment, I would jump into bed. Twenty years later I found myself repeating the same ceremony every night in public, on the stage of one of the strip joints that line the boulevard in Pigalle, wearing a blonde wig in case

my grandparents, who lived in the neighborhood, should happen to pass by.

The High Heel I was twenty-seven years old. I was hired as a striptease artist in a traveling carnival that was set up for the Christmas holidays at the corner of Boulevard de Clichy and Rue des Martyrs. I was supposed to undress eighteen times a day between 4:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m. On

18

January 8, 1981, as I was sitting on the only chair in the trailer, one of my colleagues, to

whom I refused to give my seat, tried to poke my eyes out with her high heel and ended up kicking me in the head. I lost consciousness. During the fight, she had, as the ultimate stage

ofstripping, torn off my blonde wig. This was to be my last performance in the profession.

The Razor Blade

I posed nude every day for a drawing class, from 9:00 a.m. to 12 noon. And each day, a man who was always seated in the first row, on my far left, drew me for three hours. At

noon he would take a razor blade out of his pocket and compulsively slash the drawing he had made. I would watch. Then he would leave the room. The drawing would remain

on the table as evidence. This was repeated every day for twelve days. On the thirteenth day, I didn’t go to work.

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The Love Letter

For years a love letter languished on my desk. I had never received a love letter, so I paid a public scribe to write one. Eight days later, I received seven beautiful pages of pure poetry penned in ink. It had cost me one hundred francs and the man

said: “...as for myself,

without moving from my chair I was everywhere with you.”

23

The Cats. I had three cats. Felix died after having been

accidentally locked in the fridge. Zoe was taken from me when my younger brother was born; I hated him from that moment

on. Nina was strangled by a jealous man who had, some time before, given me the following ultimatum: to sleep, either with the cat or

with him. I opted for the cat.

25

The Bed It was my bed. The one in which I slept until I was seventeen. Then my mother put it in a room she rented out. On October 7, 1979,

26

the tenant lay down on it and set himself on

fire. He died. The firemen threw the bed out the window. It was there, in the courtyard of the building, for nine days.

The Wedding Dress I always admired him. Silently, since I was child. One November 8th—I was thirty years

old—he allowed me to pay him a visit. He lived several hundred kilometers from Paris.

I had brought a wedding dress in my valise, white silk with a short train. I wore it on our

first night together.

The Pig It’s a silly story. I was about thirty. A man phoned to say that he and I were making similar work and that we should meet. I always worry I might miss out on something so I agreed. When he arrived he told me his art consisted of stopping women in the street and asking them to sleep with him. Well, he said, wasnt one of my projects all about getting strangers to spend time in my bed? He told me he was taking me to a barbecue. I spent the whole evening playing the maid, grilling sausages, serving and cleaning up. Time goes

by faster when youre busy. Later he dropped me off outside my door. He leaned in to me and sought my lips. I pushed him away. “What makes you think I'd want to kiss you?” I protested. “Well anyway,” he answered, “you eat like a pig.” Even today, after all these years, his words haunt me. I can’t remember a thing about him, yet he’s still sitting at my table.

31

The Bad Breath

I was thirty, and my father thought I had bad breath. He made an appointment for me with a doctor whom he assumed was a general practitioner. However, when I arrived at his office, I immediately realized that he was

a psychoanalyst. Given the hostility my father

32

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always expressed towards this profession, I was surprised. “There must be some mistake,” I said. “My father is convinced I have

bad breath and he sent me to a GP.” The man

replied: “Do you always do what your father tells you to do?” And so I became his patient.

as,

Saw Nothing—Nobody Some time in 1984 I received a call from a stranger by the name of Makhi. She wanted me to go to the apartment where the two sisters who “adopted” her had lived and, within six months of each other, died, both aged 90. Makhi had inherited their possessions but for months had put off this first visit to a place haunted by their decrepitude, their death and their ghosts. I went there for her sake. I photographed the abandoned house so I could give her the images of what she was frightened to see. I asked to keep the sisters’ portrait and some diaries. The entry for December 25, 1980, said: “Saw Nothing—Nobody.” And,

for 1981: “Christmas—Nothing.”

22

The Tie

-

I saw him for the first time in December 1985, at a lecture he was giving. I found him attractive, but one thing bothered me: he was wear-

ing an ugly tie. The next day I anonymously sent him a thin brown tie. Later, I saw him

in a restaurant; he was wearing it. Unfortunately, it clashed with his shirt. It was then

that I decided to take on the task of dressing him from head to toe: I would send him one article of clothing every year at Christmas. In

1986, he received a pair of silk gray socks; in 1987, a black alpaca sweater; in 1988, a white shirt; in 1989, a pair of gold-plated cufflinks; in 1990, a pair of boxer shorts with a Christmas tree pattern; nothing in 1991; and in

1992, a pair of grey trousers. Someday, when

he is fully dressed by me, I would like to be introduced to him.

By

The Neck. He wanted to take my picture with his Polaroid. When the image appeared, there was visible a red line marking my neck. I took the

photograph away from him and for the next few days, I remained rather mistrustful. Two weeks later, one night, a man tried to strangle

me. He left me lying unconscious on the sidewalk. I recognized that same man, three days later, in a bar. He rushed over apologizing, insisting that it was all a mistake, and sug-

gested that I become the godmother of the baby he was expecting imminently.

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Télé Star She lived with her television. One day she fell ill, and was taken to the hospital, where she remained several months until she died

on December 26, 1986. When I went to her

40

house to find a memento of her, I chose the TV Guide that was still on a table by the television: her last issue of 7éé Star. For my grandmother and her home, life had stopped the week of the 16th to the 22nd of August, 1986.

41

The Dice

I have always liked others to make decisions for me. B. and I played a game: on even-numbered days he made the decisions, on odd-numbered days I did. When he left for the States he gave me a die to replace him.

The Dice (next part) One day, during an opening, a young man

approached me and introduced himself. He

had the same last name as B. I expressed my surprise at the similarity between the uncommon spelling of his name and that of my lover. His response was gallant: two men with identical names loved me. The next day, he

invited me to share his bed. I entrusted my decision to the die. Through the intermedi-

ary of his gift, B. was approving his successor.

43

The Gift I was in love with him, but he had decided

to leave me. To soften the breakup, he suggested a farewell trip of one week in Seville. I liked the idea though it seemed painful. So,

44

I accepted and we went. On the last day, seeing my tears, H. told mea secret. It was a terrible secret, which had poisoned his life. And he was confiding it to me. Only to me. At the very moment he was depriving me of his love, this man offered me, through his con-

fession, the ultimate proof of our intimacy.

aoe

The Sheet

My great aunt was named Valentine. She was born the 4th of February 1888. At the age of ninety-six she grew tired of living. But she had set herself a goal: to live to be a hundred. Just

before her hundredth birthday, while unconscious and near death in her bed, she momentarily revived and murmured: “How many days left?” There were six days left. “T'll last,” she whispered, “T’lll last.” She died the 4th of February 1988. For her epitaph she had chosen a verse from the Bible: “She hath done what she could.” Not long before her death, she had embroidered a sheet with my initials. I gave it to my friend Hervé, who was seriously ill, in memory of that night long ago when he had refused to share my bed. It was my way of inviting him to sleep a little with me. And then, I also liked thinking,

that, having been embroidered by a woman who lived to be a hundred by sheer tenacity of will, this sheet, imbued with her faith, would give him her strength. 969406 Aigues-Vives (30) — Paris M. Robert CALLE ;

Mile Sophie CALLE ; Mme Colette CALLE ; M. et Mme Jean-Charles MAURIN et leurs enfants ; M. et Mme Serge VERA et leurs enfants, font part du décés de

Mlle Valentine SOUNAY née le 4 février 1888 survenu le 4 février 1988 Les obséques auront lieu ce vendredi 5 février 1988, a 11 h, au temple d'Aigues-Vives “Elle a fait ce qu'elle a pu" Saint-Marc, chapitre 14, verset 8

47

Torero The surgeon's report said, “His heart was split in two, like a book.” Decorum dictated that

I stay away from his funeral. His ashes were scattered, and with them my grief. I made him an ephemeral memorial, a marble plate

resting on the sand of the bullring of Seville, on the spot where he died, May 1, 1992, at

6.45 p.m. in the afternoon, his heart impaled ona

horn.

49

The Breasts I was a flat-chested teenager. Still, wanting to

be like my friends, I bought a bra, a soutien-gorge which, of course, I didn’t need. My mother,

who possessed a magnificent bosom and a

sharp wit, called it my “soutien-rien’—my support-nothing. I can still hear her words today. Over the years that followed my chest slowly

50

pushed out. Nothing to write home about, though. Suddenly, in 1992, a transformation occurred. In the space of six months, spontaneously, I had proper tits: no treatments, no operations. A miracle. I swear. I was thrilled,

but not really surprised. I put this feat down to twenty years of frustration, envy, dreams and sighs.

51

The Coffee Cup He was the most intelligent man I had ever

known. One day he called to invite me to lunch, and proposed we meet the following week. Somehow the idea of the pleasure I would have from listening to him was countered by a malaise: The fear of not being up

to it. So, to ready myself I asked him what we would talk about. It was an exercise that I knew was as silly as it was vain, but one that would comfort me. D. chose a theme

instantly: What makes you get up in the morning ? I prepared myself all week, accu-

mulating all kinds of answers. When the day came, I asked him for his opinion on the mat-

ter, and he said: “The smell of coffee.” That was it. Then we changed the subject. At the end of the meal, after the coffee was served, I

stole a cup as a memory of our lunch together.

53

The Husband 10 short stories

I

The Resolution I met him in a bar in December 1989. I was

in New York for a couple of days. He offered to let me stay in his apartment and I accepted. He gave me the address, handed me the keys,

and disappeared. I spent the night alone in his bed. The only thing I learned about him came from a piece of paper that I found under a cigarette box. It said: “Resolutions for the

New Year: no lying, no biting.” Later, I called him from Paris to thank him. We decided to

meet and made a date for January 20, 1990. Orly airport at 9:00 a.m. He never arrived, never called, and did not answer his phone. On January 10, 1991, at 7:00 p.m., I received

the following call: “It’s Greg Shephard. I am

at Orly airport, one year late. Would you like to see me?” This man knew how to talk to me.

a7,

II

The Hostage He was an unreliable man. For our first date he showed up one year late. Therefore, when he left, to make sure he would come back,

I insisted that he leave something with me as a hostage. A week later, he sent me his most pre-

cious possession: a small French nineteenthcentury painting, entitled The Love Letter,

which portrayed a young girl who bore an uncanny likeness to me. A year passed, and on January 18, 1992, after having rented two rings and a witness, I became his bride

in a simple ceremony held at a 24-hour drive-up wedding window on Route 604 in Las Vegas. Later he gave me The Love Letter

as a wedding gift. I had acquired a husband but in the process had lost my guarantee that

he would always come back to me.

Po

Ill

The Argument Tuesday, March 10, 1992, at 11:50 a.m., he threw the following in my direction: an empty tea kettle, a butcher's block, a yellow love seat,

four pillows, a biography of Bruce Nauman

60

and a black phone. When the phone hit the wall, I understood it would be preferable to

meet his request and listen. By 1:00 p.m., everything was back in order except for a hole left in the wall. I hid this last bit of evidence with our wedding picture.

61

IV Amnesia No matter how hard I try, I never remember

the color of a man’s eyes or the shape and size of his sex. But I decided that a wife should know these things. So I made an effort to fight

this amnesia. I now know he has green eyes.

63

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Every morn-

ing, contemplating the bed we slept in, I would whisper the same refrain: “NO sex last night.” This went on for fifteen days

64

until we arrived in Las Vegas. There I per-

suaded him to marry me. That night, the NO became a YES. Later he confessed that his desire sprang from the fact I was now his wife. An erection was the first thing marriage had given me.

65

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VI The Rival I wanted a love letter, but he would not write

one to me. One day, I saw the word “Sophie” written at the top of a piece of stationery. This gave me hope. Two months after our wedding, I noticed the edge of a piece of paper sticking out from under his typewriter.

I pulled it toward me. The last line of the letter appeared: “My confession is that, last night I kissed the envelope with your letter and photo.” I continued to read, in reverse: “You asked me once if I believed in love at

first sight. Did I ever answer you?” At the top of the page I noticed these words were not addressed to me but to a letter “H.” I crossed out the “H” and replaced it with an “S.” This became the letter I had never received.

67

VII The Fake Marriage Our improvised roadside marriage in Las Vegas didnt allow me the chance to fulfill the secret dream that I share with so many women: to one day wear a wedding dress. So,

on Saturday, June 20, 1992, I decided to bring

family and friends together on the steps of a church in Paris for a formal wedding picture. The photograph was followed by a mock

civil ceremony performed by a real mayor and then a reception. The rice, the wedding cake, the white veil—nothing was missing.

I crowned, with a fake marriage, the truest story of my life.

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The Breakup He dreamed of making movies. I dreamed of crossing America with him. To get him to

follow me, I suggested that during the trip we make a film about our: life together. He

agreed, and on January 3, 1992, we left New York in his silver Cadillac and headed for California. Nine months later in San Francisco,

we hadnt yet written the words “THE END” on our movie, when one day, I reached with my hand under the car seat to slide it forward, and came across a black plastic bag. I opened

it. It contained letters, 24 to be exact, in Greg’s handwriting, all addressed to a certain H., and

sent—as the postmarks showed—during the

course of 1992. I didn’t know why but they were back in his possession, and he had chosen to hide them there. I read them all, and stole two. One, because in it he said: “I'll be free in

October.” The other, for this phrase: “... with Sophie, I have this ‘baby’ that wouldn’t have

existed if I hadn’t so much passion for you ...” I had given Greg the chance to fulfill his deepest desire, and here he was thanking another

woman. A few days later he handed me a letter: “Sophie, I always knew you would come into my life. |want you also to know that I love you, and that you became the most precious thing to me.” Doubting this, I decided to prove his

letter right: he would be free in October.

7a

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The Divorce In my fantasies, I am a man. Greg was quick

to notice this. Perhaps that’s why he invited me one day to piss for him. It became a ritual: I would come up behind him, blindly undo his pants, take out his penis, and do my best to aim well. Then, after the customary shake, I would nonchalantly put it back and close his fly. Shortly after our separation, I asked

Greg for a photo-souvenir of this ritual. He accepted. So, in a Brooklyn studio, I had him pee into a plastic bucket in front of a camera. This photograph was an excuse to put my hand on his sex one last time. That evening, I agreed to the divorce.

7)

Ten

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The Other There was a man I liked, but the first time

we made love I was afraid to look at him. I thought I was still in love with Greg, and

feared being overwhelmed by the idea that the man in my bed wasn’t the right one. So, I chose to close my eyes: In the dark, at least the uncertainty remained. One day I made the mistake of telling him why I kept my eyes closed in bed. He said nothing. Several months later, finally free of the ghost of Greg, and my doubts, I opened my eyes, now certain that he was the one I wanted to see. I didn’t know that it would be our last night together. He was about to leave me. “What happens is always so far ahead of us, that we can never catch up to it and know its true appearance.”

75

Dream Wedding

I nearly got married to a man who had been posted to China for three years. That’s a long time. Like a fiancée whose betrothed is bound for the front, I wanted to marry him on the runway at Roissy airport, just before he left. The groom would step up into the plane as I stood on the tarmac. The reception would be held without him and I would spend my wedding night alone. We set the date for October 7, 2000. Negotiations with the

76

airport authorities, mayor's agreement to ofhciate, license, guest list, dress—everything was ready. Until a letter from the state prosecutor arrived refusing permission. Weddings had to be celebrated on municipal premises, with two exceptions: hospital, in the likelihood of imminent death of one of the betrothed, or

prison. So, town hall, jail, agony, these were our choices. Banal, radical or tragic. Still, on October 7, I did go to the airport to wear my dress, just once, and to grieve for our wedding.

And I did go back home alone, as planned.

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The Medical Examination I underwent a medical examination. I had to fill out a six-page questionnaire of nearly 300

questions. To all except one, I answered NO. Have you contracted rubella, variola, chol-

era, chickenpox, tetanus, tuberculosis, yellow fever, scarlet fever or typhoid? Do you suffer

from a heart murmur, high cholesterol, hypertension, diabetes? Are you prone to vertigo?

Do you have headaches, stomachaches, pal-

pitations, nausea, children, allergies, strokes, kidney stones, dizzy spells, epileptic seizures,

lower back pain, gastro-intestinal disorders, inflamed gums, hearing troubles, blurred vision? And suddenly, out of nowhere, lost

amidst this sea of questions, the following one: “Are you sad?”

79

Journey to California A man wrote to me from California: “June 4,

1999. Dear Ms. Calle, I have recently been released from a long-term relationship. I have been wading my way through various moods and emotions as a result of this separation. I would like to spend the remainder of my mourning/ grieving period in your bed ...” How to say yes? Tricky. Considering how far he'd have to travel, would it be fair to send him packing if I found him unattractive? And besides, there was already a man in my bed. Two months later, my bed

80

boarded the plane for San Francisco. The carrier delivered 1 bedstead, 1 box spring, 1 mattress, the sheets I had slept in, 2 pillows, 2 pillowcases and 1 blanket. I wished the recipient a quick

recovery and urged him to keep me posted about his convalescence so I could reclaim my property once he had fully recovered. He acknowledged receipt of these items on August 4: “Your bed is very comfortable. I find the scent on the pillows and linen to be soothing. I will keep you abreast

of my emotions and experiences ...” In September, I heard that his pain had eased.

On February 2, 2000, my bed was back home.

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EET 22

Room with a View

Some nights you can't put into words. I spent the night of October 5, 2002 in a room set up for me at the top of the Eiffel Tower. In bed. Between white sheets, listening to the strangers who took turns at my bedside. Zell me a story so I wont fall asleep. Maximum length: 5 minutes. Longer ifthrilling. No story, no visit. Ifyour story sends me to sleep, please leave quietly and ask the guard to wake me... Hundreds turned up. Some nights you can’t describe. I came back down in the early morning. A message was flashing on each pillar: sophie calle, end of sleepless night, 7:00 a.m. As if to confirm that I hadn't dreamt it all. I asked for the moon and I got it: I SLEPT AT THE TOP OF THE EIFFEL TOWER. Since then, I keep an eye out for it, and if I glimpse it along some street, I say hello. Give it a fond look.

Up there, 1,014 feet above ground, it’s a bit like home.

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Renée de face My father received a Protestant upbringing. To hide his emotions, he covers his mouth,

because he can’t hide his eyes. My father is a collector. His first purchase was Renée de Face, an etching by Jacques Villon. Later he sold it and regretted it. He spent years trying to find

it, to no avail. Not so long ago I was leaving the Salon du Livre Ancien. I turned around and there she was: Renée de Face. | called my father to ask if he still wanted her. He couldn't

make up his mind: perhaps she wasn’t really that beautiful after all? Wasn't it better to just let memories be? I bought it, and that very evening I secretly hung it in his bedroom.

When he saw it he did not say thank you, he exclaimed: “How much did you pay for it?” He was moved and he had received a Protes-

tant upbringing.

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Counterproductive Counterproductive: bringing about effects or results regarded as contrary to those intended.

After seven years of living together, P. phoned to say he was leaving me. I asked him to come and tell me in person. He said it would be “counterproductive.” A word that was open

to interpretation—P. intended to leave me, I intended the opposite—but effective. In order to put this epilogue to good use, I decided that I was going My mother had given me to Find a Man in Paris. instructions to the letter.

to be “productive.” a book called How 1 would follow its I also had this idea

of asking couples I envied—provided I found some—to tell me the exact circumstances of their first meeting. Then I would go at that

same place, at the same time, on the same day of the week, the same month, and wait ... But

the pain went away before I'd had time to try anything.

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ET VOUS, A QUAND VOTRE PLUS BEAU MOMENT ?

To Victor Hasselblad I never wanted children. Imagine a sad day: I'm feeling lonely and dreading nightfall. Here comes a young couple, the man with his arm around the woman’s waist, the woman pushing a stroller. Their eyes tell me to give way: An offspring bestows certain rights.

They gaze blissfully at the baby. And I sigh: “Poor things ...” Not a reasonable reaction, I know, but I feel better already.

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I was two. It happened on a beach—Deauville, I think. My mother had entrusted me to a group of children. I was the youngest and they had to get rid of me: that was their game. They huddled together, whispering,

then burst out laughing and scattered when I tried to come near. And I ran after them,

shouting: “Wait for me! Wait for me!” I can still remember.

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The View of my Life My bedroom window gives on to a pasture. In the pasture there are bulls, and with the bulls, tick birds. On the left, the branches of a weeping willow. In the distance, a row of

ash and tamarisk trees. There are egrets and the occasional

stork. Nothing remarkable,

and yet, this grassland glows. I couldn't begin to count the hours I’ve spent looking out at it, through the mosquito net. This meadow,

framed by the window, is the image that my eyes have photographed more than any other.

It is the view of my life.

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The Hairdryer A group of people are asked to describe a painting of a reclining woman. Most men see her as sad or abandoned. Women, on the other hand, see her as serene, even languid.

My father deviates from the norm. Yesterday

we went to the theater. At the end of the play,

the female protagonist sinks into a depression and electrocutes herself in her bath with

a hairdryer. Her head rests on the edge of the tub. The curtain comes down. My father considers this a happy ending. He sees a woman relaxing, finally at peace.

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Silence Every time my mother passed by the Bristol Hotel, she stopped, crossed herself, and told us to shut up. “Silence!” she said, “This is

where I lost my virginity.”

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You really fooled them! I once had a show at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. My mother came

to the opening.

When she discovered my

works hanging among those of Hopper and Magritte, she was amazed. With no malice whatsoever, she cried out: “You really fooled them!”

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Obituary Monique wanted to see the sea one last time. On Tuesday, January 31, we went to Cabourg. The last journey. The next day, “so my feet look nice when I go”: the last pedicure. She read Ravel by Jean Echenoz. The last book. A man she had long admired but never met came to her bedside. Making a friend for the last time. She organized the funeral cer-

emony: her last party. Final preparations: she chose her funeral dress—navy blue with a white pattern—a photograph showing her making a face for the tombstone, and her

epitaph: Jin getting bored already! She wrote a last poem, for her burial. She chose Montparnasse cemetery as her final address. She didn’t want to die. She said this was the first time in her life she didn’t mind waiting. She shed her last tears. The days before her death, she kept repeating: “It’s odd. It’s so stupid.” She listened to the Clarinet Concerto in A major, K.

622. For the last time. Her last wish: to leave with the music of Mozart in her ears. Her last request: for us not to worry. “Ne vous faites pas de souci.” Souci was her last word. On March 15, 2006, at 3:00 p.m., the last smile. The last breath, somewhere between 3:02 and

3:13. Impossible to capture.

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Dead in a good mood Read in my mother’s diary: December 28, 1985 — No use investing in the tenderness of my children, between Antoine’s placid indifference and Sophie’s selfish arrogance! My only consolation is, she is so morbid that she will come visit me in my grave more often than on Rue Boulard. May 29, 1986 —I don’t remember to whom I said yesterday over the phone, about myself: “She came from nothing—and left jaded about everything!” September 9, 1986 —I still don’t know whether I want to be cremated or buried. Funny how I can’t imagine that happening to me at all! April 28, 1987 — Good-bye, Diary! I’m off to New York. Let’s hope it will all be wonderful. If the plane crashes, here’s a cheery farewell to life! November 10, 1988 —I slowly get used to my depression; slighted, it slowly backs away. June 6, 1989 — Abominable.

January 1, 1990 — “To have accomplished nothing and to die overworked.” (Cioran)

April 1, 1990 — No, I’m not depressed, nor bitter, but I am terribly bored, without purpose or project or vision, “I feel that I am just a ruined tomb in which my virtues and illusions lie.” February 21, 1995 — Nothing! Except nursing my sorrow. December 11, 1995 — I would already like Christmas to be over. Or perhaps Id like my life to be over. December 10, 1996 — Dear Diary (possibly the last volume thereof), good-bye. I didn’t give you much, and you returned the compliment...

One of the notebooks was undated and the pages were blank, except for a few notes about how to use the vcr, and this sentence: “I died in a very good mood.”

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Today my mother died On December 27, 1986, my mother wrote in

her diary: “My mother died today.” On March 15, 2006, in turn, I wrote in mine:

“My mother died today.” No one will say this about me. The end.

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The Giraffe When my mother died I bought a taxidermied giraffe. I named it after my mother and hung it up in my studio. Monique looks down at me with sadness and irony.

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him. Anne put him to sleep. He died. Maurice dug a hole in the garden. I laid Souris in a little white model coffin, the kind travel-

ling sales reps would use before the advent of photography. Too small. His back paws were sticking out. Yves buried him. Serena planted daffodils around his grave.

I received a message on my phone: Sophie, I am sorry about your cat. Could you ask Camille to pick up some vegetables maybe leeks or turnips ifshe sees any? Kisses.

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The ghost of Souris Dear Sophie, I recently heard about the deaths

ofyour cat and your father, and I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you. M.

Souris is the name that I will have repeated

most often in my life. I still catch myself whispering it at night. His preferred terri-

tory was the space between my two pillows. There, in that void, that stillness where

he used to breathe, I feel his absence most keenly. After our fathers die, we don't sleep

with their ghosts in our beds.

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Morning Each night, after leaving his hospital room,

I would write down what might be my father’s last word.

There was: elsewhere, homosexual, money. Whispered: I can’t go on.

Who’s there? Glass of wine. Cypress. That week, on Monday, he said: Screwed.

Tuesday: Daughter. “This is my daughter.” Something I'll never hear again.

Wednesday, with a movement of his lips and eyes, he asked for a kiss. My father, who never

kissed me, wanted a kiss. Could this very uncharacteristic gesture be his last word?

Thursday: Toilets. Not a great word. He would be alive tomorrow, for sure.

Friday: Paintings. “We're going to rehang the paintings.” A beautiful last word. A dangerous one. I was torn between wanting a perfect final word,

and hoping for a bad word, a word that could not be the last, one that would reassure me that my father would be alive tomorrow.

Saturday, he said: Dying. Sunday, he said: Morning. He died on Monday April 6, 2015, at 6.50 am.

My father was ninety-four years old. Not long before, when I asked him how he

was doing, he responded: “[’m not making any progress.”

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Silent Heart’ Attack When my father fell ill, I too fell ill. I got shingles and had a heart attack. As if I

wanted my father, a doctor, to take care of his daughter one last time. Or as though I

were accompanying him on his way, wedding myself to his illness, while at the same time, through this irreproachable excuse,

avoiding the sight of him in his diminished state. To reiterate. Shingles: weakened immune system. Heart attack: death of a part of the heart. Unlike the usual heart attack, mine was ‘silent’.

Was the imminent loss of those eyes that had guided my life threatening me with silence?

121

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Who ru Delete contact. Difficult. When my father died, I didn’t erase his num-

ber from my phone. Yesterday I dialed it by mistake and hung up right away. A few minutes later, his picture and name came up on the screen. Bob was sending me a message.

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My mother, my cat, my father My parents each took three months to die. Three months: time for the last gestures of love, time to become an orphan. But not the

endless, grinding time of agony and despair, of seeing my flamboyant mother and my impeccable father fall from their heights.

A week before she died, my mother refused to see an unwelcome visitor: “Tell him I’m

dead!” On the Tuesday before he died, my father complained: “I'd like to go to that new place. We're losing time. Let’s set a date,

we keep delaying, delaying!” They died just in time, both of them: alive to the end.

I forgot to cut a lock of their hair, and that’s

not like me. When my cat died, I saved a tuft of his fur. Florence was relieved: “I’m glad to see that you still distinguish between humans and animals.”

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Graphic design: Raphaélle Pinoncély Proofreading: Bronwyn Mahoney Production: Géraldine Lay Photoengraving: Terre Neuve

Published in English in 2018 by Actes Sud, Le Méjan, Place Nina-Berberova, 13200 Arles, France. Printed and bound by Sepec in Peronnas. www.actes-sud.fr Legal deposit: December 2017 (Printed in France)

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9 | 330"093037